See You in the Funny Papers

The room around me is…tacky. The fact that word is floating through my mind proves what bad shape I’m in. I blame the morphine I can see, but certainly not feel, dripping into my arm from the Iv. I sound like a fucking house wife.

 

It is tacky though. The horrible result of someone attempting to make a room friendly and inviting, while non-offensive to everyone. At least there aren’t any fucking flowers. Don’t know if I could have stomached that.

 

The almost pretty and very bubbly nurse who’d been standing over me when I woke up had flitted out of the room already. Girls like that love tough guys. According to her I’m a suspect, dragged in by the police themselves. She ate it up.

 

Fucking Mason. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at the sheer level of idiotic nobility in the man. Beats me senseless then takes me to the hospital. I would have left me. I would have deserved it.

 

It’s what keeps the man interesting though. He ain’t another boring hypocrite, good when it suits him, just like the rest of us when it doesn’t. He really believes the boy scout shit. Not that he’s perfect. I’m living proof of that. I grin lazily, the drugs taking the edge off my smile somewhat. Nothing like tearing a man down from his pedestal.

 

A snicker floats into the haze and I turn my head slowly, swollen face reminding me not to move too fast. Speak of the devil.

 

“Mason. You fucking idiot.” I frown slightly. The slight slur in my voice isn’t the tone I was aiming for.

 

[OOC: Everything I know about 1940s hospitals I learned from the Godfather. I think they’re more like houses with medical treatment then the shiny buildings we have now]

Mason huffed down the hallway and only the distraction of Sally keeps me from rolling my eyes or yelling an insulting remark after him. If this is how the man planned on winning women, he was going to have an empty bed for a long, <i>long</i> time. The idea the man might be virgin crosses my mind and can’t stop the sharp laugh from coming out of my throat. Maybe Sal will just think I was laughing at her hand gestures.

 

She promises she can keep the secret and I grin at her.

 

“Knew I could trust ya, Sal.” I raise my good hand, still stiff and sore from holding up Mason, and brush away an imaginary out of place hair from her forehead “You just got that kinda face.”

 

My broken hand throbs a reminder and now that the adrenaline is fading I can only partially hold back my wince. I decide I can flirt just as well with her taking care of it as I can now. A little privacy wouldn’t hurt either. I jerk my head, gesturing to the room behind us.

 

 “Some bandages in the back, I think.”

New York never changes. It’d been nearly thirty years since the harbor was my personal stomping ground, but coming back tonight it even smelled the same as when was a teenager. Made me laugh all over again at the idealism of some of the Minutemen. Thinking we actually changed anything. Shit, what a joke. At least I got the humor; least I know I’m only here for my personal enjoyment and not some greater good.

 

The harbor reeks of sewage and oil and as I breathe it in along with my cigar smoke it feels like home. Night’s still young, barely midnight, there’s got to be some action around here. Instead, rats scurry over boxes and a stray dog growls from the side, but other than that the place seems deserted.

 

Christ, something odd’s up. The harbor’s a criminal hot spot. The level of violence and depravity that happens here’s the reason I patrol it whenever I get the chance to stop in town. It’s too calm tonight. Either the world ended without me noticing so the politicians are right and the police are winning their war on crime, or something’s already happened here. Muffled sounds from the warehouse ahead and I grin. With any luck, there’s my source for the unnatural stillness of the rats nest.

 

It takes me a minute to jog to the building, and by the time I arrive the fun’s obviously already over. Several men lay in various stages of unconsciousness on the filthy ground, blood pooling and the smell of urine filling the already pungent air. Only two men are left standing, and it’s obvious one of them wishes he weren’t.

 

From the pinned man’s shaking voice, I’m guessing the mask in the trench coat was asking him some questions. Fuck, what was the kids name. Worked with Mason’s replacement. Roar something. Didn’t really matter.

 

The guy apparently wasn’t answering fast enough as the next sounds to fill them room were a hard crack followed by his piercing scream. Fingers. Nice work. I hadn’t been too impressed with him at the crimebusters meeting, since, Christ, anyone who would willingly partner with a Nite Owl had to be a fucking humorless bastard, but I think the kid’s growing on me already.

 

His source crumples to the side, unconscious, and I let out a barking laugh at the apparently disappointed slump of the mask’s shoulders.

 

“Just don’t make criminals like they used to, eh?”

What a fucking sight we must be. The Comedian, stalking down the street, cigar firmly in place, gun notably absent, a limp gold and purple form slung over tense arms, blond head pushed firmly against his chest. Good thing it was nearly four am and drizzling, so late it was early and too unpleasant for most criminals to bother being out. Especially in a cop neighborhood. While I’d have no problems teaching any onlookers a lesson about staring at dangerous men in odd situations, it would slow me down too much. I had a plane to catch. Ditching the blond on the side of the road was as good an option as any if push came to shove, but the kid was too much fun to just leave for the garbage to pick up without reason.

 

Finally. Been years since I’d been here, but I got the best memory of anyone I know. I’d recognize the building anywhere. Mason’s place. The so called ‘Owl’s Nest.’ Fucking cutesy nicknames. Boy Scouts playing dress up. Enough to make a real man sick. One good thing about Boy Scouts, though: they can’t say no. Will be a laugh to see the look on his face too. Makes me wish I could stay and see how much agony the kids pride puts them through when he wakes up.

 

I make it up the few steps to his door, shifting Ozy’s weight so his shoulders are pressed against mine, his head lolling to rest near my neck, freeing a hand enough to slam repeatedly against the wooden door. I’ll shove it in if Hollis takes too long, but that would require putting down the broken and barely conscious boy in my grip, and I don’t feel like picking a muddy mask back up.

 

It’s only been a few seconds, but I’m impatient. I slam on the door again.

Joined up with the Capt’s Dream Team. Ain’t a one of them, ‘sides the two dolls, much to look at or talk to, but what the hell? Groups make things more legitimate, gives a kind of authority just running around solo in my clown suit never could. If just facing one mask’s enough to make a couple criminals shit themselves, just think what knowing a whole room full of ‘em’s coming will do. Just thinkin’ bout it’s enough to make me light up the cigars and pass out the beers.

 Youngest in the group. Expected that. Takes most people a lot longer to figure out how things are then it did me. Just means more time for me. When they’re all dead and buried I’ll still be running about, wait and see. Got a few uncomfortable looks for saying that. Christ, people can’t take a joke. Just ‘cause it’s true doesn’t mean it ain’t funny.
 

[OOC I heard there was some sort of bandwagon passing through...]

Should have seen it coming. From the day I made the mask, I shoulda seen it coming. Best jokes are the ones you know are over, that it’s finished, only to have the real, final, punch line come out of nowhere at the very end of the sketch. Leave you blinking for a second, wondering what the fuck the guy’s talking about, then you remember the opening line and know that everything in between then and now was just filler, build up to the climax. And you laugh. Laugh and laugh so long and hard that by the end you’re only crying and can barely remember why. Stupid of me, to think the filler was the real joke. Should have seen it coming. Didn’t. Had to have the little shit practically spell it out for me, too. Stupid.

 

Took me months to finally get it. Long months searching for someone, anyone, to explain what was so damn funny. It’s the first sign of a terrible joke. If it’s gotta be explained, it ain’t half as funny as you think. Can’t really complain though. All my best work needed to be explained. Kids in masks staring blankly at the stage. I’ve been  playing to the wrong audience. Work with what you got though, best anyone can do. It’s what he did too; I get that much now. He finished a joke started long before he was born, one I’d been working on since I was sixteen. Perfect punch line.  Hits me harder than any other. Made me cry till I laughed.

 

Almost feel bad for ‘em. No one else is ever gonna appreciate his work. Least of all me.  Worst joke I’d ever heard when I think about it, despite the beauty of the end. Long. Drawn out. Complicated. Not even going to get an awkward chuckle when it’s finally used in the big room. But he’ll be there, standing in the spotlight and smiling at ‘em all even as they stare in confusion. I should give him my mask. It’d fit him better. I’m too old for todays sense of humor. Don’t know how much longer I can stand it.

 

God help me. God help us all.